


we were supposed to be

by firehawkes



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Peggy deserved better, and steve and peggy deserved better, this is otherwise just a collection of masochism honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firehawkes/pseuds/firehawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers her smile, most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were supposed to be

The church is mostly empty. The priest who had led the ceremony, dressed in whites and purples, is speaking quietly to someone back near the entrance; there’s a server hanging around near one of the back pews, cleaning. Steve sits at the front, his forearms tucked over his thighs.

Breathes.

*

He remembers her smile, most of all.

Peggy’s mouth had always been red, the colour dark and promising of something that she held, fiercely, proudly, in her gut. Steve had wiped the smear of it off his chin far too many times for him to truly remember it; the lipstick staining his collar, his mouth, his jaw. She’d laugh, terribly amused and awfully in love, and Steve’s chest would constrict again, the air too thick to breathe in.

The last time he’d seen her, held her hand—not a week and a half ago. Had he been too rushed? Had the flowers he bought her, red and yellow and pink, withered before she passed? Had she asked for him? Had she known? God—had she known?

*

Steve had taken the best part of himself and folded it carefully into a dog-eared letter, sent it to her across oceans, across worlds, across planets that didn’t even exist. He held, next to his beating heart, the cross-section of Peggy Carter, the corners and spheres of her that only he was allowed to see, what he was entrusted with, the affection of this woman – that beautiful, stubborn, glorious woman.

*

Gone.

*

London was grey and the cold bit at his bones, froze his knuckles as he rubbed them together; stood there, not quite seeing, not quite hearing – relatives of the woman he loved, people he’d never met, people who had got to spend those years with her, had taken the time. Steve Rogers, tucked into his suit, bowtie tight across his throat, was a goddamn fraud.

He’d shouldered the weight of her casket with the other men, taking the brunt of the force, each step jolting ice down his spine – she was dead. She was dead, and he wasn’t there. Had he failed her, again (again, again), not even being there to say goodbye?

He’d been able to fit both her hands between one of his own. Steve would draw the line from her jaw down to her clavicle with her finger, imagining it was coated with paint – the smooth curve of her in the morning, filtered through with the cool sunlight, unabashed. She’d lie with him until their alarm went off, then disappear to shower.

Like a candle snuffed out; the smoke coiling its way upward to the nearest exit, seeking its escape – the other patrons had left long ago; Steve sat in their dust, waiting until even the building crumbled.

*

Had she known?

*

They warned him, when he looked for her. They said she wasn’t the same, that she wouldn’t know his face, that she’d gotten married and moved on and her life had been brilliant, but now, confined. Steve had pushed until he’d burst through the door and saw the smile crack easily onto her face; those eyes still the same, always the same – a tube of red lipstick, finished, on the counter-top.

*

She saw him, then, even in the fog.

*

He’d lifted her in his arms up onto the rooftop and held her hand as the fireworks spat across the sky. By the time it was over, she knew him all over again.

Tugging in the pocket of his jacket, he finds the compass, sets it in his palm.

Maybe they’d spent years together. Steve could buy her flowers every Tuesday, and set them in a terracotta vase. She’d work long hours, but they’d make time for each other – stealing moments in the morning, after dinner, when it struck midnight. He’d kiss her mouth and she’d stroke her hand up his back. They’d decide to get married, and the proposal would be stupid and elaborate, and Peggy would laugh and press her kiss to the side of his neck, her fingers curling in the lapels of his jacket. He’d cook her dinner every other day, and they’d share a sticky beer between them, passing the bottle back and forth, sitting outside on the bench in their garden, feet tucked beneath them. He’d tell her he loved her, and in return, she’d smile. Maybe they had that.

*

His hand shakes, tightens around the metal edges.

She had always seen him.


End file.
